Holding Up
by Petunia846
Summary: "She's tired, she's scared, and she's not eating enough…and somebody's trying to kill her." A short description of how Fiona's holding up in prison.


**AN: I'm loving the new season of BN so far. I loved the scene between Michael and Maddie at the beginning of "Under the Gun". This is based on that.**

"_Michael, what the hell is going on? You went to see Fiona what, ah, yesterday afternoon and you never bothered to call me afterwards?"_

"_I've been a little busy."_

"_Well how is she?"_

"_She's, uh, holding up."_

"_That may be the most evasive answer you've ever given me…and you can be pretty evasive. She's important to me too, Michael."_

"_She's tired, she's scared, and she's not eating enough…and somebody's trying to kill her."_

"_She's tired…"_

The cell's mattress was thin and lumpy, with a hole at the foot of it…someone's attempted hiding place, no doubt. Her toe caught in it occasionally while she slept but it usually wasn't enough to wake her up.

Not like the screams. The woman next door had night terrors, vicious sounding visions of ex-husbands and boyfriends. Fiona plotted sometimes how she would take them out if she ever got the chance.

Every day she did more push ups and sit ups, ran longer in the yard, pushed her body as far as she could make it go in hopes that it would finally push her over the edge and lead to a full night's sleep.

She missed her Hungarian goose down duvet and the warmth of Michael's body pressed against her. She knew he'd be having nightmares as well and shed salty tears out of frustration that she couldn't be there to comfort him.

"…_she's scared…"_

But not of the other inmates who do one-armed push-ups or the ones with switchblades under their mattresses.

She's scared of the person she's becoming. Scared she'll forget how to run in high heels while wielding a shotgun. Scared she won't be able to crack the latest safes anymore. Scared of her favorite knives loosing their edges and forgetting where all her weapons are squirreled away around south Florida.

Most of all she's scared of losing Michael…losing Michael or Sam or Maddie. Losing the comradery they had, the sense of family they'd developed. What if they changed without her. What if they no longer needed her, or worse, what if they literally couldn't live without her.

Images of Michael without backup haunted her…trapped on a rooftop somewhere without a sniper watching his back. Or of Sam in a car chase with no one to run interference. Or Maddie trapped at home with an intruder and no one to call.

"…_and she's not eating enough…"_

The food was not the worst she'd ever had, but it was still prison food, and she often didn't feel like eating.

She meditated on the taste of a creamy, sweet cortadito sometimes. She'd spend so long thinking about it that she would feel the phantom caffeine pulse through her body until she couldn't sit still anymore.

Then she'd pace…back and forth across the small cell. She'd choose a dish and try to remember the last times she'd had it and where…in reverse order.

Tuna tahini, for example. She'd made some for herself a few months ago while Michael was away on a CIA gig. Before that it was about a year ago for Michael's birthday. Before that it was Campbell who'd made it for Michael at his apartment to thank him for helping with a case. And the time before that, she was alone in a back alley restaurant in Haifa waiting to make an arms trade.

If time was really dragging she'd count yogurt. Some people count sheep to get to sleep, she counted little cups of fermented milk. Tuesday of the week before turning herself in she'd had a blueberry yogurt on the balcony at the loft. The day before it was the same place but vanilla. Two days before that it'd been a yogurt and granola parfait at Carlitos. The night before that she'd been up late with Michael and in need of a little energy boost.

Some things she didn't count, like apples. That would be too easy, not to mention depressing. An apple at lunch yesterday, at lunch the day before that, and the one before that, and on and on as long as she'd been there. And to think…she used to like apples.

"…_and somebody's trying to kill her."_

Probably Anson, but maybe someone else with a grudge from her past. Strange that being locked behind bars day and night put her in a more vulnerable position than being on the outside.

Sometimes she wondered if Michael had been right, if turning herself in was a mistake, but she quickly returned to the inevitability of her decision. She'd accomplished her goal. Michael was free and becoming the man she loved once again. Anson was on the run, but Michael would find him, of that she was sure. In the meantime she could survive a little fatigue, self-doubt, and hunger. She was holding up as best she could.


End file.
